Joe Bob Briggs
Wanda Bodine keeps raggin' on me for Forgetting About The Weekend. This is some kinda sacred deal with her. Translation: "Get your butt over here and pay attention to me on Saturday night."
You know when I usually notice it's the weekend? When I go to Aggie's House of Pancakes for my usual 11 a.m. breakfast and see a line of people in J. Crew golf shirts waiting to get in. Normally the only person who TRIES to get into Aggie's House of Pancakes is Wilbur, the local retard, who sometimes forgets where the door is.
And then it hits me. "Oh, right. It's that SATURDAY thing. I'm gonna be dealing with these BMW-driving Starbucks People all day long."
But Wanda takes it to the goldurn limit. Her idea of a date on Saturday is to start out with a picnic in a park full of Pakistani couples and their Russian wolfhounds, followed by two hours of shopping for 19th-century canopy beds, followed by dinner at a place where they serve Pellegrino in a two-gallon jug, followed by a three-hour movie starring Gerard Depardieu as an Armenian monk, followed by drinks at the restaurant that's a hundred stories up and revolves, followed by lighting all the candles around her bed right before I PASS OUT from exhaustion.
But the date's STILL NOT OVER. You gotta get up Sunday for brunch at a place called Mummenschanz and eat Eggs Benedict, bran muffins, and Swedish coffee until you have a headache. Then she's likely to say something like, "The day is so nice, we should go sailing on the lake."
Sailing on the lake. Sailing on the goldurn lake. Do you realize how much WORK "sailing on the lake" is, especially for the poor moron who has to work the sails while she sits there in her bikini, working on her tan?
I know one thing for sure. The whole weekend dating thing was NOT invented by men. Notice how there is no room in this scenario for something like, oh, the NBA playoffs? I mean, you can luck out and the playoffs can be held in your hometown. For some reason, girls love to go to basketball games, even girls who HATE basketball.
But even if you invite 'em to the game, you'd better pray it's a weekend. Ask 'em on a Tuesday night, and they're liable to say: "I'd better not stay out late. I have to work for a living, and I don't wanna be tired."
She doesn't wanna be tired.
Bless her heart.
And speaking of deranged killer-lesbian man-hating medical personnel, this week's flick is Maniac Nurses Find Ecstasy, the sensitive story of a beautiful torturer who runs a clinic for the terminally male, a place in the Hungarian countryside where hapless accident victims end up satisfying the strange urges of bored bimbos in surgical gowns, some of them equipped with bonesaws.
The strangest thing about this movie--"Filmed in the Birthplace of Franz Liszt!" according to the preview trailer--is that the nurses wander around like zombies, which is explained by a goofy narrator as what happens when people max out on sexual experiences and start seeking new thrills, like disembowelling young girls.
Susanna Makay is the teenage girl who reads comic books in her room at the clinic, stopping occasionally to track down scared campers as they scamper through the woods in terror. Hajni Brown is her Uzi-toting mom, the warden. And Celia Farago is the jealous aide-de-camp, who thought everything was JUST FINE until Hajni went and got pregnant by a...shudder...MAN.
So much for the plot. This is a gang of orgy-loving, shotgun-carrying femmes in miniskirts who roam the highways in an ambulance van, bringing in just enough tourism to last the day, if you know what I mean and I think you do.
I've seen 47,000 movies in my lifetime, and this one might be the strangest.
I have no idea what it is.
My kinda flick!
Sixteen dead bodies. Twenty-seven breasts. Multiple exploding heads.
The old boiled-to-death-in-the-sauna torture.
Heroin-shooting. Bullet through the head. Cannibalism. Elvis tattoo.
Body parts in a garbage bag. Nonelective surgery, with closeup disemboweling.
Multiple throat-slitting. Chainsaw body-carving. Tree branch through the gizzards.
Torture of a bald, fat, self-flogging monk.
Catfight. Strangulation. Stick through the privates.
A trip wire that cuts off both of a guy's feet at the ankles! (Great scene.) S&M. B&D. LMNOP.
Heads roll. Feet roll. Zombie fu.
Drive-In Academy Award nominations for:
*Celia Farago, as the assistant warden who likes to dress up girls in black lingerie and caress them with a bullwhip.
*Susanna Makay, as the perky, nubile heroine who wears a lot of white lingerie and says, "I HATE going to the woods."
*And Leon P. Howard, the writer, for lines like, "They dance the bored slow-dance of people who have done and seen it all--their world is one big attempt at suicide."
Joe Bob says check it out.
Joe Bob's Find That Flick
This week's brain-stem stumper comes from Palmer Allen of Urbana, Illinois:
"This is a sci-fi space flick that I saw back around maybe mid- to late-'50s. A crew of Americans land on the moon and are detected, and possibly captured, by the locals, who turn out to be sort of Amazon warrior catwomen.
"The catwomen decide to kill the men--something about 'there goes the neighborhood.' However, one of them has fallen for one of the space-guys. There's a scene where he talks to her about bringing her back to Earth.
"I have a vague memory of him trying to explain picket fences, gingham, Coca-Cola, stuff like that. She tips him off about the plot and is possibly killed herself by the rest of the catwomen, who are upset with her.
"Anyhow, the astronauts manage to get their ship repaired and escape back to Earth just in the nick of time. This movie had no redeeming social value, but intrigued the hell out of me on several levels, plus I thought the catwomen were really cute.
"Any idea what movie this is?"
A video will be awarded to the correct answer. In the event of a tie, a drawing will be held. Send "Find That Flick" questions and solutions to Joe Bob Briggs, P.O. Box 2002, Dallas, Texas 75221.
You can also fax them to 213-462-5982 or e-mail them to Joe Bob on the Internet: email@example.com. (E-mail entries must include a postal mailing address.)
1997 Joe Bob Briggs (Distributed by NYT Special Features)
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